


Snakes and ladders

by kwunkwun



Category: EXILE (JPOP), J Soul Brothers (Band), Sandaime J Soul Brothers
Genre: Bad Boys, Gangs, M/M, small time gangsters au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwunkwun/pseuds/kwunkwun
Summary: The boss did warn them that Shibuya was gonna be pretty full-on -so how wise was it to let a stranger lead him off by the nose in an area he was completely alien to? Not very, probably. And as he looked down at the slim and beautiful hand around his wrist, he spied a few scars, some fresh, and then a crooked knuckle. That should be a big warning sign but he was more than a bit tipsy and dang this kid was hot.





	Snakes and ladders

“Life is not just about money and fast cars,” Iwata proclaimed. A funny thing for him to be saying, given he was currently polishing the hood of his ride.

Nevertheless Ryuji decided to humour him, adding, “It’s also about good food and friendship.”

“That too, but _not_ what I was going for,” Iwata responded, throwing the rag his way. Ryuji had his hands full with greasing up a set of old gears, so he paid no attention when the rag landed on his knee.

“I need some meat,” Iwata continued, wiping his hands on a towel that used to be white.

“Mm,” Ryuji agreed, totally not listening.

“I need a man.”

“Hmm.”

“I need buttsex.”

“Mm -wha-?!”

Iwata pulled Ryuji roughly off the work bench and towards the stairs leading back into their apartment (their safehouse, he liked to call it). Ryuji managed to put the gears back onto the table before getting manhandled out of the workshop.

“Gun-chan. I thought you said we weren’t gonna try it ever again.”

“You doofus, I meant we’re going to the bar. I can’t get hard for you even if I tried.”

Ryuji didn’t look offended, just confused. “Because I’m too straight?”

“Because you’re too much of a bottom.”

Before Ryuji could start protesting, Iwata threw open the wardrobe and chucked a couple of outfits his way.

“Now where the fuck did I put those skinny jeans…”

Iwata Takanori and Imaichi Ryuji, better known on the streets as the Wild Cats of Shibuya, were known to frequent bars in search of ‘prey’.

What they did with their prey oscillated between leaving them half naked and unconscious in a hotel room, or broken and bleeding at the back of an alleyway, but in both cases, it was guaranteed that they’d be missing their wallets.

\--

Ken gulped down half of his beer before setting down his glass with a loud thunk. Elly gave him a sidelong glance.

“Go easy with the booze, Piyama. You’re always overestimating your limit and then _I’m_ the one who’s gotta carry your heavy ass back home.”

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Ken gave his companion a hard nudge in the ribs.

“I’m so fucking sick of Kataoka making us sneak around like a couple of rats,” Ken grouched. He picked a pistachio from the bowl and inelegantly cracked the shell between his teeth.

“Give it two more weeks till we get our bearings and then he’ll get off our backs, all right?” Elly cooed.

The fluorescent lights played lazily over the chunk of ice in his tumbler, and he gave it a little swirl to hear it clink against the glass.

“We keep a low profile, figure out the best time to make our move. And then when we _do_ strike we get better returns.”

“Listen to yourself Elly. You’re supposed to be a man of instinct, but now you’re fucking parroting everything the boss says.”

“Whoa there, getting a lil’ personal there, Ken.”

Elly put up both hands in mock surrender, and Ken mumbled a piqued ‘sorry’ before downing the rest of his drink.

“Hey, Piyama, eight o’clock.”

Ken was about to do a full swivel on his stool, but Elly grabbed onto his seat and hissed, “discretely! Jesus Christ, man.”

“I do discrete no better than your grandma can wear hot pants, you shit!”

Ken looked over his shoulder anyway, across the rickety melamine tables scattered around the bar, and he finally spotted two men seated on a sunken red couch in the corner. It was difficult to make out any details from his spot, but one thing made a definite impression on him: two sweet pairs of pins encased in tight denim, one belonging to dude with the face of an angel and the other belonging to angry moustache.

“Dis. Crete.” Elly grabbed him by the chin and pulled his head back around.

“I saw beauty and the beast,” Ken reported.

“Don’t be an arsehole -actually scratch that, you’re fucking blind. Unless by beast you meant the _rrrrr_ kind of beast-

“Uh, half-half, to be honest.”

“Then you’re definitely blind. Don’t look now, here they come.”

Of course, Ken looked anyway. The two dudes were off the couch and making their way across the bar -or maybe _stalking_ their way across was a better word, because the way they walked was almost predatory, and moustache’s glare was definitely severe enough to set an ant on fire.

Pretty and Moustache’s visual contrast was like night and day, spice and sugar. Pretty was surf blond, slim, clad in a faded leather jacket and skin-tight acid jeans that sat way too low on the hips and -fuck, that t-shirt was tiny enough to classify as a crop top but let Mother Theresa spank him if he didn’t think it looked hot.

Moustache had black hair, half slicked back, was a little taller but equally lean. An oversized denim jacket hung loosely from his frame, coupled with a white tee that might as well have been made of rice paper. And then there were those goddamn legs in ripped black denim.

Elly was right, he was blind.

Now that he’d finished looking, which he hoped didn’t actually take as long as it felt, he half turned in his seat to come face to face with enigmatic duo.

“Busy?” Pretty began with a cute quirk of the eyebrow.

“Busy looking,” Elly returned, doing that thing he did with his fingers and his lips.

“Just window shopping?” Pretty continued, smirking.

“Oh, I think that’d be a crime,” Elly lamented.

Ken had no idea what they were saying and did not give two fucks either. He stole a glance at moustache to find the man looking -Jesus, equally confused, and the difference between that initial glare and this perky-mouthed furrowed-eyebrow face was like the difference between a dragon and a baby chick.

More importantly, Elly had called the bartender over, boasting that the next round of drinks were on him. So they were doing this shit for real. The duo took their seats -Pretty to Elly’s right, Moustache to Elly’s left, wedging them between an attack formation. So they, too, were doing this shit for real.

“So, names?” Pretty asked. That cocky smile was dangerous up close. He could also smell the cologne coming off of him. Whatever floral-with-woody-afternotes shit it was it smelled super nice.

“Yamashita Kenjirou. And that guy’s Elly,” he answered, doing his damndest to sound casual-cool.

“Kenjirou-san and Elly-san? Just call me Gun-chan, and he’s Ryu-chan.”

Glary moustache popped his head in to add in a ‘hi’ with a bizarrely shy smile, once again throwing Ken in for a loop.

Gun-chan was a retail assistant, Ryu-can a construction worker. Two years apart, but apparently they hit it off when they met at a soccer club back in high school. Gun-chan was 24, Ryu-chan 26. Neither of them looked it, but now at least he knew that he wouldn’t be breaking the law every time Gun-chan shuffled on his stool to ‘accidentally’ brush his thigh against his.

Elly and Ryu-chan were talking about music, R&B, hip-hop, The Pharcyde, Kendrick Lamar -though Ryu-chan’s contribution to the conversation consisted mostly of enthusiastic nods, because he was busy shoving potato wedges into his mouth like a bear preparing for hibernation.

“Ryu-chan has super high metabolism. He eats two lunchboxes on work days but never puts on an extra ounce,” Gun-chan explained upon seeing the disbelief on his face. “Perfect waistline. Seriously jealous.”

“You uh, got a pretty perfect waistline yourself, Gun-chan.”

Yep, smooth as butter.

Gun-chan gave him that ‘really, now?’ look -a lazy sweep from his face down his body and back up again, finished with another eyebrow quirk. Ken felt his cheeks heat up.

“Well, thanks. You’re not so bad yourself, Kenjiro-san.”

“Haha, you don’t gotta be polite y’know?”

Gun-chan propped an elbow on the bar and turned 45 degrees in his direction. He spread his knees just so, surreptitiously inviting him to gaze over his body -from those shapely thighs to his crotch and up to that inch and a half of bared skin between the hem of his tee and his belt.

“I wasn’t being polite though?”

Sweet Jesus, this guy was sealing off all his exists one by one before he even realised he was lost.

Gun-chan’s hand touched his knee. Maybe he’d been anticipating something for far too long, because he jolted like a complete loser. Gun-chan giggled, apparently not bothered by his fish out of water reaction.

“Come on, let’s ditch them.”

‘Wha? But-

“They won’t miss us. Let’s go!”

Ken found himself being tugged off the stool with surprising strength, and as Gun-chan dragged him off he threw two or three looks over his shoulder at Elly and Ryu-chan. They were now sharing a bubblegum-blue cocktail that might actually be glowing, and Ryu-chan was on his second ice cream sundae.

With a noisy push through the backdoor of the club, the heavy music gave way to the low hubbub of nightlife. The air outside was only marginally fresher than inside; as Gun-chan led him through a maze of alleyways, he found his senses being assaulted with the stink of garbage, sewage, vomit, oil, smoke, and urine.

The boss did warn them that Shibuya was gonna be pretty full-on -so how wise was it to let a stranger lead him off by the nose in an area he was completely alien to? Not very, probably. And as he looked down at the slim and beautiful hand around his wrist, he spied a few scars, some fresh, and then a crooked knuckle. That should be a big warning sign but he _was_ more than a bit tipsy and dang this kid was hot.

Gun-chan threw around a few names of restaurants and shops he frequented as they passed through the streets, and Ken would follow the direction of his pointing finger only to lose his bearings because they were going too fast. Ten or so minutes went by in a blur before he found himself being shoved through a door, down a very short corridor, and then onto a squeaky mattress.

The air whooshed out of his lungs as Gun-chan jumped straight onto him, smiling like the devil’s child as he straddled his lap. Mixed with sweat and body heat, the scent coming off his skin took on a sticky, creamy quality. It was drawing him in like cigarette smoke, like dirty music.

Gun-chan’s body was backlit by the cobalt LED’s bordering the big-ass mirror opposite the bed. Place was gaudy, but made the right kinda mood for no-frills fucking. And Gun-chan obviously really wanted to fuck, because he was grinding his ass on his lap, really slow but not at all gentle. He put his whole body into it, rolling his hips and arching his back so that he’d see every ripple of toned muscle shift beneath those form-fitting clothes.

Gun-chan got him harder than a brick in no time, and he swallowed heavily from the sensation of Gun’s asscheeks squeezing his erection over his jeans.

“I could tell you liked me from the start, Kenjiro-san,” Gun-chan murmured, his grin dark and exciting.

“You… are sure cocky,” Ken managed to retort, but he finished that with a needy grunt when Gun-chan grabbed his hands to place them on his thighs.

Gun-chan leaned close until his mouth was ghosting over his, and then he whispered, “I got more from where that came from if that’s what you like, Kenjiro-san.”

Their mouths met with slow magic, like the pages of a picture book. He could taste a hint of sweetness behind the alcohol. Gun-chan’s tongue, probing past his teeth and then rubbing at the roof of his mouth, examining slowly and drawing out little grunts of pleasure that rose from the bottom of his throat.

This was all just a little too crazy. So crazy that he forgot to be embarrassed that Gun-chan had pretty much taken him by the leash. He didn’t even know that he _had_ a leash.

His palms went massaging up the back of Gun-chan’s thighs, ending with two handfuls of his sweet, supple ass.

Utter bliss he could totally drown in.

Fuck first, think later.

\--

Iwata heard something crack as he sent the steel toe of his boot into the fucker’s ribcage. The guy was choking, blubbering, regurgitating a mess of blood and half-digested takeaway onto the asphalt. Wish the blood was stronger cos that vomit shit _stank._

After last night’s escapade, though, he definitely felt a lot better, and that was why he stopped short of crushing those grubby fingers under his heel.

Behind him was a regular rhythm of metal meeting glass. Ryuji, wielding a baseball bat wrapped in rags to dampen the sound, was doing a thorough job of turning the black Volkswagen into an ugly duckling. A man with a rat tail made the mistake of lunging at Ryuji, trying to throw him off the roof of the car, and received a well-aimed kick in the throat. Those legs were not just good for looking at, Iwata liked to boast on behalf of Ryuji.

The look Ryuji wore while pummelling people and their stuff was 70% au natural and 30% taught. He once told Ryuji to practice it until he manages to make even the birds fly off and had gotten the saddest face in return.

Ryuji dropped from the car to pursue rat-tail, landing gracefully in a half crouch before using that to launch himself into chase. Iwata stepped back to let him run, because prolonging the hunt was part and parcel of the fun. His fingers brushed Ryuji’s elbow affectionately as he whizzed pass, and they exchanged toothy grins during the brief contact.

Three pairs of footsteps rang through the rain-slicked alleyways. The streets seemed to narrow into spaghetti-thin slits in a high-speed game of cat and mouse, squeezing the air out of his lungs and turning his blood into molten silver.

Suddenly, their chase came to a halt.

Ahead, in an intersection half barred by abandoned whiteware and rotten cardboard, stood two figures in striking monochrome. A man with mussed, black hair, and then his darker-skinned, blond companion. They each wore leather masks studded with spikes that gleamed dangerously and gorgeously in the half-lit alley.

_Sharkmouth._

Iwata had heard rumours about their arrival, but this was the first time he had run into them. Or rather, the first time he had _officially_ run into them. His face broke slowly into a malicious grin, and beside him, Ryuji uttered a surprised ‘oh’.

The masked duo turned, raising their heads, looking, remembering, recognising.

Behind the mask, a familiar voice called, “You - _Gun-chan?”_

Iwata’s smile broadened as he took the bat from Ryuji.

“Hello, Kenjiro-san.”

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> lol


End file.
